


Parry & Riposte

by purewanderlust



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 21:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17088161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purewanderlust/pseuds/purewanderlust
Summary: After a close-call on the Wounded Coast, Hawke decides to teach Varric how to use knives, like her father taught her when her magic was still erratic. What could possibly go wrong?Quite a lot, apparently.





	Parry & Riposte

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tigereyes45](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigereyes45/gifts).



> This got away from me in a big way. The actual knife-fighting is quite short and I'm not 100% satisfied with the ending, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!

The whole thing started, as these things often do, with an ill-advised trip to the Wounded Coast. One of these days, Hawke was going to stop taking jobs on the blighted coast. She said as much, grumpily brushing sand out of her hair. The wind picked up again and she shivered, then frowned as she felt _even_ _more sand_ whip around her face.

“I hate this place,” she declared. “This is the last time I come out here, mark my words.”

“ _ The mage lied _ ,” quipped Varric. “It's not like you need the money anymore. Admit it, Hawke, as long as there’s things that need doing out here, you’re going to be the one coming and doing them.”

“Well,” Hawke returned haughtily. “No one else will do them correctly.”

“Are we quite sure these things need doing?” Fenris asked. “This woman we're seeking is an apostate, after all.”

Hawke gasped, bringing a hand to her heart. “Can you imagine?” she said, smirking at Varric. “Fenris gallivanting about the countryside with an apostate? How dreadful!”

“Positively distasteful,” Varric agreed. “We should’ve refused to take the job.”

“Yes, yes, you’ve made your point,” Fenris grumbled, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth that belied his tone. “If you are set on this, the cave the mage spoke of is at the north-westernmost point of the coastline.”

“The  _ mage _ ,” snapped Anders, “is called Terrie. She has a name.” He had been quiet up until now, lost in whatever headspace he shared with Justice. Hawke supposed it had been naive to hope the peace would last. 

“You just had to bring them both,” Varric said in an undertone, as if reading her thoughts. He raised an eyebrow at her and they both fell back a little, letting Anders and Fenris take the lead, bickering the whole time.

“Yes, well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s called the Wounded Coast, not the Everything is Swell Coast, so forgive me for wanting a healer along.” She bumped her hip against his arm, but she might as well have hip-checked a boulder for all the good it did. Varric didn’t stumble, immovable as ever.

He grinned up at her. “And Broody?”   


Hawke shrugged. “I like the way he carries that big sword.”

Varric chuckled and she grinned back at him, forgetting their companions for the moment. He had a rich, deep laugh, and it was a challenge to get sincerely. As a general rule, Hawke tried to avoid arrogance, but she felt she had a talent for getting Varric to laugh and actually mean it. 

They reached the cavern without further incident. Hawke took the lead, lifting her staff and summoning a glow in the orb to illuminate the cave. Fenris brought up the rear while Varric stayed close to her side, his sharp eyes scanning for traps and pressure plates.

Nothing seemed amiss in the first chamber of the cavern, but when they crept into the second chamber, everything went sideways. There were at least fifteen bounty hunters on them within moments, knives flashing. 

“All this hassle over one mage?” Fenris complained, unsheathing his sword, but Hawke barely heard him. She bared her teeth at the thugs, flames licking over her hands as she drew on her mana for the fight.

Most were easily dispatched; between Varric's crossbow and Fenris’ lightning speed, Hawke peppered the enemy with elemental and spirit attacks. One brave soul actually rushed her, mistakenly thinking he would have the advantage in close combat. She caught him in the ribs with the orb of her staff and when he doubled over, she brought her knee up and smashed it into his face.

“Hawke, look out!” Varric's shout had her spinning from her recently fallen foe to face an assassin who had appeared from nowhere, but she could already tell she was moving too slowly to evade him.

There was a familiar thwack, the sound of a bolt finding its target, and the assassin dropped dead at her feet. Hawke looked up at Varric and he gave her a cheeky salute. Suddenly, a second assassin appeared in the shadows behind him. “Varric!”

He turned and the assassin kicked the crossbow out of his hands before he could even bring it up to aim. It skidded across the cavern floor, out of reach. The assassin's knives flashed and Varric took a deep slice to his shoulder. Hawke felt a flash of panic when she realized she was too far away to reach them.

She summoned all the mana she had left, dipping dangerously into the Fade. For once, it was easy to ignore the whispers from beyond. Before the assassin could take another step, a massive bolt of lightning crashed down on him, shaking the walls as thunder echoed through the cave. Varric dropped to his knees, clapping his hands over his ears. Even Fenris and Anders, far from the blast site, flinched away from the sound. The assassin was gone, nothing but a black scorch mark on the ground to indicate he had ever even existed.

Hawke didn't notice any of these things, staggering to Varric's side while the others took care of the few fools who hadn't fled. “Varric! Are you okay?”

He grimaced, peeling the leather duster back from his shoulder to check the damage. The cut was deep and bleeding sluggishly. “I've been better,” he admitted. “But I've certainly been worse. Did you  _ vaporize  _ that guy?”

“He had it coming,” Hawke said distantly. She gently prodded at Varric's wound, fingers coming away tacky with blood. “He hurt you.” Her head was pounding, but she ignored it in favor of examining his shoulder.

Varric's brow creased. “Marian, are  _ you  _ okay?”

She blinked away the black spots in the corners of her eyes. “I'm fine,” she said and then immediately pitched forward. Strong arms caught her and her forehead somehow wound up pressed to Varric's chest. She could hear his heartbeat and could smell the smoky leather-and-wine scent she always associated with the dwarf. It was very soothing. Despite the hard stone under her knees, she was comfortable enough to go to sleep right here.

“Marian, do  _ not  _ go to sleep,” Anders’ firm voice came from somewhere above her. “That was incredibly dangerous spellwork, your mana is completely drained.”

“Can you heal her?” Fenris asked.

“No, Vee--” Her voice was unsteady, and she didn't care for that shit at all. She cleared her throat. “Varric's injured.” She was pleased at her second attempt, though it was undermined by how she continued to lean into his chest.

Anders made an inquisitive noise and Hawke could feel Varric's chin move against her hair as he shook his head, voice rumbling under her ear. “It's just a scratch.”

“Is  _ not _ ,” she protested. 

Anders sighed. “Hawke, just let me take a look at you and then I'll help Varric.” Before she could protest, she was being rearranged into a sitting position, leaning against the cavern wall. Anders shoved a flask into her hands. “Drink that.”

Hawke obeyed, recognizing the cold metallic scent of lyrium. Two swigs of the potion and the dizziness started to fade. Four, and her vision sharpened. By the time she'd finished the flask, Hawke was feeling like herself again. 

But of course they weren't done yet. Anders was crouched in front of her, wearing a serious expression and making altogether too much eye contact. She heaved a huge unimpressed sigh.

“I'm still me, alright? I just overdid it a bit.”

At her side, Varric snorted. Anders’ expression didn't change. “What's your name?”

“Marian Hawke,” she said. “My mother is Leandra Amell Hawke, I had a sister named Bethany, and my brother Carver is a Grey Warden. You're Anders, he's Fenris, and if I was possessed, a demon would know all this anyway. Can you please look at Varric's  _ gaping knife wound _ ?”

“You'll forgive me for being worried, since you nearly ripped a hole in the Veil earlier.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Hawke flapped a hand at him, trying to ignore the whitish blue glow spider-webbing up the length of his arms. Maybe she had gone a little overboard. “I'll be more careful next time.”

Thankfully, Anders didn't press the issue, moving on to Varric and his injury. “Was the blade poisoned?”

“Doesn't feel like it,” answered Varric. “Just sharp.”

Anders nodded, brow furrowing in concentration as he ran his hands over the wound. Hawke watched as the skin knit itself back together, feeling something in her chest loosen. Once he was done, Varric got to his feet, rolling his shoulders experimentally.

“Good as new. Blondie, you've done it again.” Varric crossed to Bianca and picked it up, notching a finger over the trigger and grinning back at them. “Now for the love of the ancestors, can we free this girl and get the hell out of here?”

*

The rest of the job had gone quickly and easily, without even any further arguing from Anders and Fenris. Still, Hawke couldn't get it out of her mind. She had seen some pretty fucked-up shit, but nothing thus far had disturbed her as much as the image of Varric, weaponless and facing down an enemy's blade.

Nightmares were pretty much par for the course for mages, but after a week of visions featuring her best friend getting brutally murdered in front of her, Hawke had had enough. Freshly woken from her most recent dream, Hawke scrambled out of bed and started haphazardly throwing on clothes. Dawn was still hours away, but that hardly mattered. She hadn't gotten a restful night’s sleep since they'd returned from the coast, and by Andraste's flaming knickers, she was going to do something about it. She grabbed her spare set of daggers and made her way out to the streets of Hightown.

The Hanged Man was dark and quiet when she slipped inside. Corff was dozing, elbow propped on the bar and there were only a couple of patrons at the table. Hawke kept her head down and crossed to the stairs without engaging any of them. 

There was still light spilling from beneath the door to Varric’s suite, so Hawke pushed it open without any preamble. Varric was at his desk, pouring over a scrap of parchment with a familiar intensity. There were ink stains on his hands, and his hair flickered red and gold in the candlelight. Looking at him, Hawke instantly felt better, the nightmares and weariness fading like so much fog over the harbor. 

Varric looked up at the sound of her footsteps, brow knit with concern. “It’s the middle of the night, Hawke. Is everything all right?”

She drew herself up to her full height and gave him a passably indignant look. “You say that like we don’t frequently stay up until all hours, drinking and carrying on together.”

“Well, sure.” Varric returned easily. “Did you want to go downstairs and drink and carry on, then?”

Hawke frowned. “Can’t a woman visit her dear friend in the dead of the night without wanting anything in particular?”

“Not in my experience, no.”

She crossed her arms. “You’re too dependent on Bianca,” she blurted. “The crossbow, I mean. You need to learn how to defend yourself with other weapons. Not to replace Bianca, mind, just as backup.”

“Hawke, what on earth makes you think--”

“We can do very well without any repeats of last week,” she continued as though she hadn’t heard him. “I keep dreaming of it, it’s very inconvenient…”

“Last week--? Hold on, you’re not talking about the thing at the cave, are you? Andraste’s tits, Hawke. Everything turned out fine.”

“Yes, but what if it doesn’t next time?” Hawke snapped. She took a breath. For a moment, anger had gotten the best of her. It wasn’t exactly her idea of a good time to tell Varric she had been afraid for him. Hawke was, as a rule, not afraid of anything. “Listen,” she said in a much calmer voice, “when I was young, I didn’t have the solidest grasp on my magic--you know, trained by a Circle runaway and whatnot--so my father decided that until I had better control, that I would need to learn to defend myself the traditional way.”

Varric was staring at her, an expression between amusement and confusion warring on his face. Quite suddenly, Hawke couldn’t stand to look at him anymore, dropping her gaze to the logs crackling on the fire. 

“Anyway, I’m pretty good with a knife, so I thought I could show you some tricks. In case you find yourself Bianca-less and in trouble.”

“You want to train me in knife-fighting,” Varric said in an odd voice, “because you were worried about me?”

Hawke’s face grew warm. “I wasn’t  _ worried _ ! Just trying to be practical. And helpful. Both very good things that I, your very good friend, want to do for you.”   


“Oh yes, practical and helpful are the first two adjectives I would apply to you.” He said dryly. “You aren’t going to leave me alone until I agree to this nonsense, are you?”

“Nope!” Hawke said cheerfully, finally looking him in the eye again, if only to give him her best shit-eating grin. “I’m told that I’m remarkably stubborn.”

Varric muttered something under his breath that sounded very much like “Don’t I know it.” He ran a hand through his hair and Hawke was distracted for a moment noticing that it was free of it’s usual ribbon and hanging loose about his face. It was longer than she realized. By the time she snapped back to attention, it appeared he had come to a decision. “Alright, Hawke, you can teach me how to use knives. But not tonight, hmm?”

“Oh yes, definitely not tonight.” Hawke agreed, swaying on her feet. “Haven’t slept properly in days, I might accidentally stab you.” Her fingers wrapped around the doorframe and she started backing towards the stairs. “I’ll come by tomorrow.”

“Why don’t you just stay here?” Varric interrupted and Hawke froze. “It’s a long walk back to Hightown, and I don’t want to find out you were mugged and murdered on your way home because I couldn’t tell you were too tired for the walk back.”

“I’m not tir--” Hawke tried to protest, but ending up ruining her own lie with a jaw-cracking yawn. “Ah. Well...where would I even sleep?”

Varric shrugged. “Take the bed. I probably won’t need it anyway, I’m coming up on a deadline and need to get this done.” He gestured to the abandoned parchment and quill. 

Hawke hesitated, but only for a moment. He was right, she could barely manage to keep her eyes open. She stepped back into the room, nudging the door shut with her foot, and then made her way to the bed. Hawke could feel Varric’s eyes on her as she snuffed out the nearest candles and kicked off her boots, but she kept her own determinedly downturned. She collapsed onto the mattress with a sigh, rolling herself into a bundle of expensive bedding. It had the same, familiar Varric-y scent that she’d noted last week, but instead of calming her like it had then, it made her feel inexplicably tense. There was a protracted moment of silence, and then Varric must’ve gone back to work, because she could hear the scritch-scratch of the quill on parchment from the main part of the room. She forced herself to relax, inch by inch. The quiet sounds of writing, and of Varric humming thoughtfully to himself lulled her into a deep sleep before she knew it.

Hawke didn’t have any more nightmares that night.

*

Hawke’s first thought upon waking was that she was extraordinarily comfortable. The second was the realization that she was not in her own bed and she sat up so quickly that she got momentarily dizzy. She was in Varric’s suite, wrapped in Varric’s fancy fur bedding, in Varric’s  _ bed _ . Some traitorous part of her brain was insisting she stay, but she stomped down ruthlessly on the thought before it could fully form.

The dwarf himself didn’t appear to be in. Hawke hauled herself to her feet and peeked around the doorway into the main room. The fire was banked, but still burning, and all the candles were snuffed out. The desk looked recently abandoned, bits of parchment and quills still scattered across its surface. He was usually annoyingly fastidious, so he couldn’t have been gone long. Even so, Hawke couldn’t help but feel vaguely strange about hanging about in his rooms while he wasn’t there. She sank into the armchair nearest the fireplace and picked up the first book within arm’s reach. There was nothing to do but wait for Varric to return.

She didn’t have to wait long. Scarcely five minutes had passed before the door creaked open and Varric stomped in, carrying a pair of steaming mugs. Hawke immediately dropped the book.

“If that’s coffee, I’ll marry you Varric Tethras,” she said fervently. For a second, he looked cleanly surprised, but then he lifted an eyebrow and smirked.

“Finally! I guess I’d better go talk to Bran about getting all the forms signed.” He sat one of the mugs down in front of her and Hawke beamed at him. “You seem more energetic this morning.”

“Apparently when you’re exhausted, you’re supposed to do this ‘sleeping’ thing?” Hawke said, raising her eyebrows and pretending to be shocked. “Aveline kept telling me, but I thought she was making it up.”

Varric hummed in acknowledgement. “Any chance you’ve also rethought this whole knife-combat thing?” 

“No!” Hawke exclaimed, “That was a good idea, and we’re doing it. Today, if you’re able.”

“I suppose I have the time.” Varric agreed. “Clearly, you’re not going to let this go.”

“Ah, Vee, you know me so well.” Hawke drained the rest of her drink and got to her feet. “Shall we?” 

Hawke gathered her weapons and led the way outside, to an alley behind The Hanged Man. She had used it more than once for sparring practice, and it would suit her purposes now. Certainly better than getting into a knife-fight in the middle of Hightown. Those stuffy ponces would call the city guard within minutes. 

Sometimes, Hawke really missed Lowtown.

“Okay, first things first, you’ll need a weapon.” Hawke tossed down the bundle of daggers and started sifting through them. “A lot of people like to duel wield, but we’re gonna be hard pressed to find you two daggers that have the right counterbalance for that.”

“Are you calling my upper-body strength into question?” Varric responded with disgruntlement that she could tell was feigned.   


“Maker no,” she laughed. “You’ve got more upper-body strength than I do. These are just old, cheap swords.”

“You do realize you’re rich now, right Hawke? You don’t have to live like a pinch-penny.”

Hawke finally found the weapon she was looking for and glanced up at him. “Should I start wearing fancy dresses, too?”

Varric grimaced. “Fair point. Your thriftiness suits you.”

“Not sure if that’s a compliment, but I’m choosing to take it as one. Here, catch.” Hawke tossed the dagger in his direction. Varric caught it easily by the handle, shrugging when she raised her eyebrows at the move. 

Hawke selected her own dagger and got to her feet. “Alright, so obviously your grip is going to be a little different than mine, but in terms of posture, you want your feet about shoulder-width apart, dominant foot a few inches forward of the other, and your hand fully closed around the hilt of the dagger, just below the crossguard.” She demonstrated.

Rolling his eyes, Varric adjusted his stance to mirror hers. “Are we going to discuss etiquette too?”

Hawke grinned. “Nah. That’d just give you an excuse to flout it.”

“True. What next?” 

“Well, there are several blocks and attacks that have you swing down from above, but that’s going to leave you vulnerable with your height. So we’re going to focus on sweeping under with your blade, like this.” She swung her blade through the air in an upward arc. “And if you use both hands, you get a more powerful hit.”

“Seems pretty basic,” Varric said neutrally. “Why don’t we just try a couple rounds and see what happens?”

Hawke nodded. “Okay, we can definitely try that. You ready?”

“Always.”   


“Begin!”

For a moment, Varric didn’t move. Hawke studied him, trying to find a weak spot in his stance. Suddenly, he stepped forward, faster than she expected, swinging his dagger in a blow aimed at her knees. She barely got her blade down quick enough to deflect. They both stepped back, circling each other assessingly.  

Hawke leapt in with a straightforward downward stroke and Varric blocked it solidly and shoved her back. He was grinning as he took another swipe at her legs, but she darted back out of reach instead of engaging again.

“Not bad, but you’ve got to figure out a way to make up for your lack of reach, Vee.”

“You mean like this?” Varric swung the dagger two-handed, not aiming for her knees, but the edge of her blade, putting all of his weight behind the force of the hit. Hawke could feel the vibration all the way down to her bones. While she was distracted, he ducked under her outstretched arm and jabbed her in the gut with the pommel of his dagger. She yelped. By the time she’d recovered, he had danced back out of her reach, a shit-eating grin plastered firmly on his face.

“Nice trick, but it’s only going to work once,” she retorted. She didn’t bother to mention that if he’d used the point instead of the pommel, he wouldn’t need a repeat performance. The expression on his face said he already knew. 

Varric brought his blade up again, telegraphing another hit from the right. Hawke went to block, recognizing the gleam in his eye a second too late. Before she could reverse course, he had already smacked her left hip with the flat of his blade.

“We haven’t discussed feinting yet!” she cried.    


“Oh, we haven’t?” Varric said innocently. Hawke frowned. She was beginning to think she had the wrong end of the stick. “Huh. Must be beginner’s luck.”

He was definitely putting her on. “Have you done this before?” she demanded.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hawke. Why would I agree to let you teach me something I already knew?” He winked and despite her irritation, Hawke could feel a blush rising to her cheeks. She scowled.

“Fine. Let’s go again.” Before Varric could agree, she thrust forward with her dagger. He parried easily and fell back into fighting stance. She took another swing and he blocked her handily. Her heart was pounding in her ears. Instead of stepping back to regroup, Hawke pressed forward with three swift blows, two of which he evaded. Their swords clanged together on the third, blades crossed just above the hilt. Hawke pushed and, as expected, Varric didn’t give an inch. It brought their faces very close together.

“I’m having this thought,” she said, conversational. “I have this friend. Charming, snarky, devastatingly handsome. But he’s also full of shit.”

“Devastatingly handsome, huh?” Varric replied with a smirk. Hawke snarled wordlessly and tried to shove him back, but he still wouldn’t move.

“ _ Anyways _ ,” she continued through gritted teeth, “I’m pretty sure he let me believe he didn’t know how to do something just so he could laugh at me when I tried to teach him.”

Varric’s expression gentled into something more genuine and Hawke’s heart thumped madly in her chest. “Maybe he just likes spending time in your company.”

Her brain was doing some kind of panicky, free-wheeling thing. Her palms were clammy on around the sword grip and her throat was tight. She was terrified and not completely sure why. Without thinking too hard about it, she summoned a tiny spark of lightning and watched it dance down the blade. It zapped Varric’s wrist and he instantly dropped the dagger, swearing. Hawke dropped her dagger too and backed away as quickly as she could without looking like she was about to flee.

“Let’s call that one a draw,” she said in a rush. “You’re really quite good at this, I don’t think there’s anything else I can teach you, so I’d better--”

“Hawke.”

She kept backing towards the entrance to the alleyway. “I--I’d better get home. You know Leandra will worry, and--and there’s some letters that need attending--”

“Marian.” His voice was so low and gentle, like she was some startled animal. It pissed her off. 

“Leave it, Varric.”

“Just talk to me, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that!” she snapped, “You do not get to be all tender and flirty when I know it doesn’t mean a damn thing.”   


Varric’s eyes widened and she realized with a sinking feeling that she’d already said much more than she’d intended. Before either of them could say anything else to make this worse, Hawke did the only thing she could think to do. She ran.

*

It took more than an hour to get back to Hightown, and by the time Hawke had reached the Amell estate, she was not at all interested in going inside. Leandra would take one look at her face and realize something was wrong, and Hawke didn’t have the energy to fend off her questions, just now. She walked right past the front door and continued on. 

Ten minutes later, she was pounding on Fenris’ door. He wrenched it open and leveled her with an unimpressed glare.

“Fenris,” she said gravely. “I desperately need to get drunk.”

He studied her face for a moment and whatever he saw must have convinced him that her desperation was not feigned because he stood aside and let her into the house without a word.

They were settled in the library, each nursing their own bottle of wine before he said anything at all. “Would you like to talk about it?” He asked, every inch of his body language suggesting that he was hoping she would turn him down. 

Hawke met his expectations flawlessly. “Fuck no. Can we just get drunk and I never have to talk about my feelings ever again?” 

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “Is this about the dwarf?” 

“Maferath’s hairy ass, why does everything have to be about Varric!” Hawke grumbled, taking a generous swig from her bottle. “The world does not revolve around Varric Tethras!”

“I was not suggesting it did,” Fenris said in that infuriatingly calm voice of his. “I just asked if he was the source of your current distress.”

“I’m not distressed,” Hawke retorted mulishly. “I’m perfectly at ease. Or I will be once we stop talking about Varric.”

Fenris dipped his head in acknowledgement and the conversation was abandoned. He was a good sort, Fenris. Not many people would just let her drink in peace. And drink she did, the sun arcing through the sky outside while they sprawled in fancy armchairs and worked their way through a slaver’s abandoned liquor cabinet. It was well into the evening before Hawke realized, and she looked up to see that it was growing dark outside. She groaned, dropping her most recently emptied bottle on the floor.

“Would you like another?” Fenris asked and she waved him off. 

“No, no. Maker’s balls, I’ve already overstayed my welcome. Thank you. I should really be getting home.” She hauled herself upright with some effort and tipped him a salute. “Enjoy the rest of your evening…”

“Hawke.” Fenris’ tone stopped her, halfway to the door. “I know it is not my business, and that you do not wish to discuss if further, but...if the dwarf has done something to upset you, you should just speak with him about it, and I am certain you’ll find a solution. There is nothing that Varric would not do for you.”

“I can think of one thing,” she muttered under her breath, but she managed a thin smile for Fenris, who was clearly out of his comfort zone with the whole ‘friendly advice’ thing. “Thank you, I’ll consider it.”

“Have a pleasant evening, Hawke.”

“Good night, Fenris.”

*

There was a brisk chill in the air as Hawke slipped out of the mansion and headed back to the estate. This had the unfortunate side effect of clearing away some of the intoxicated fog in her head. Still, it was late enough to justify going to sleep, and Hawke planned to do just that, immediately upon her arrival home. She was weary in a bone-deep way that couldn’t be blamed entirely on the drink, and she felt as though there were a heavy weight upon her chest. Her traitorous mind conjured up an image of Varric’s shocked expression before she had fled earlier and she consciously pushed it away. Hopefully after some sleep, she could figure out a way to laugh the whole thing off and life could go back to normal. 

The house was dark when she slipped inside, kicking her boots off by the door. She could see the glow of a fire down the hall in the great room, but it was unusually quiet. 

“Mother? Are you--?” she stepped into the room and stopped dead. It wasn’t her mother sitting by the fireplace, book in hand. It was Varric. “What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night.”

“Not nearly as late as you visited me last night,” he responded mildly, closing his book and setting it aside.

“Yes, well. I had. Important matters to discuss with you,” responded Hawke. Anxiety was creeping up her throat, but it wasn’t as though she could retreat from her own house.

“This seems pretty important, Hawke. Why'd you take off like that?” 

Hawke started. She had imagined a lot of ways this conversation would go, but that certainly hadn’t been one of them. “I’m quite sure you already know the answer to that question.”

To his credit, Varric didn’t deny it. “Then, do you mind explaining what you meant by that last thing you said?”

“Was I not clear enough?” she snapped. 

“You were frustratingly vague, actually.” Varric replied, “I’ve been sitting here trying to puzzle it out for hours.”

Where _ was  _ everyone? If only Leandra or Sandal would wander in, Hawke would have an excuse to end this painfully uncomfortable conversation. “Listen,” she said a little desperately, “I shouldn’t have said anything. Can we just pretend this never happened?”

Varric frowned. “I’ve clearly done or said something that hurt you,” he said. He seemed to be choosing his words with great care. “That’s not something I can pretend didn’t happen.”

Hawke let her shoulders slump and heaved a sigh. She dropped into the chair opposite his and stared into the fire. “It’s fine, you didn’t mean it.”

“What exactly,” he asked, frustration creeping into his tone, “do you think I didn’t mean?”

Hawke glanced up, her own irritation flaring. “Don’t--” her protest died on her lips when she saw the look on his face. Varric was studying her with an intensity she had never seen before.

“Hawke, I think you’ve got this all wrong.” His voice was very low, and she had to lean forward to hear him properly. 

“What are you talking about?”

Varric got up from his chair and approached her. Hawke tried very hard to keep her expression neutral, but she suspected she was failing miserably. He was awfully close. Now that she was actually looking at him, Hawke noticed how exhausted he looked. She wondered if it was because she’d hijacked his bed last night, or if it was because she’d run away from him today. Almost definitely her fault, either way.

She was so busy looking at his face, that she didn’t even realize he was reaching for her until he’d taken her hand. Hawke flinched and his fingers tightened around hers just slightly until she relaxed.

“Marian. I may be a scoundrel and a very accomplished liar, but,”  Varric waited until she finally met his eyes. “I've always meant everything I have ever said to you.”

This couldn’t be what it sounded like. It wasn’t possible. So Hawke did what she did best and made a joke of it. “Does that include ‘oh, I know nothing about knife-fighting, please teach me?’” 

Varric huffed, but his expression stayed almost unbearably fond. “Except for that. In my defense, I never  _ told _ you I didn’t know how to use knives, you just assumed.”

Hawke swallowed. “So...the rest of it?”

“You mean the times I told you that you were beautiful, or called you sweetheart, or accepted your ridiculous marriage proposals?” He sounded offhanded, but Hawke had known him a long time, and she recognized real nervousness behind the words. 

“Yes, those.”

“Ah, well. Yes. I meant those.” Varric shook his head. “Andraste’s flaming arse, Hawke, I thought you knew! I thought you were just flirting back for fun and weren’t interested!”

“Me?” she squawked, “I’m not the one who has not-so-secret long-lost love!”

“That’s ancient history. Besides, I’ve spent the last five years following you around on batshit adventures. I wouldn’t do that for just anyone, you know.” He reached out with his free hand and cupped her cheek. “You clearly haven’t noticed, but I’m completely over the moon for you.”

Hawke’s heart was hammering in her chest and she couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t humiliatingly sappy, so instead she surged forward in her chair, breaching the last few inches of space between them and kissed him. Varric kissed back instantly, the hand on her face sliding around to the back of her neck and pulling her closer. She bit his lower lip and was rewarded with a cut-off groan that made her start calculating how easy it would be to fit two people into the armchair and how long they had before someone else inevitably wandered into the room.

Before she could drag him into her lap, Varric pulled away, though he didn’t go far. He laced their fingers together and shot her his trademark smirk. “Are we good?”

Hawke laughed, and it came out a little hysterical “Maker’s breath, Vee, we’re better than good. We’re fantastic. Come back over here.”

“I don’t think so, sweetheart,” he laughed. “As much I would enjoy that, your mother could be back any time now, and I don’t think either of you would appreciate that.”

She made a face. “Fair enough. Then come upstairs with me?” 

Varric made a considering noise. “I dunno, I should probably get going. I have an awful lot to do at home.”

“More important than this?” Hawke fixed him with her puppy dog eyes.

“Yes, definitely,” he said, but the blinding grin on his face kind of ruined the effect, as did the way he immediately started following Hawke towards the stairs. She laughed and leaned down to kiss him again, feeling all at once deliriously happy.  
  
“Liar.”

  
  



End file.
